Joan Kilby - Party of Three

Ben’s ambitions were simple—he wanted to cook good food and make a life for himself and Danny. Steve, the ex-lawyer and self-proclaimed gastronome who owned Mangos, wanted nothing less than a chef’s hat from the Good Food Guide. He’d hired Ben to get it for him and to that end had made concessions not normally given to a head chef.

Carolyn moved toward the door. “One more thing…”

“What is it?” Ben said with exaggerated patience.

“The parade of women through your life has got to stop. If he sees a different woman in your bed every weekend he’ll get confused.”

“You flatter me,” Ben said dryly. “But there won’t be a parade of women. There won’t even be a woman. Whatever spare time I’ve got I’m going to focus on Danny.”

“I hope you mean that. As much as it pains me to admit it, Danny’s at an age when he needs a father more than he needs me right now. More than anything, I want him in a happy, stable environment. Don’t blow this, Ben.”

“I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to be a full-time dad for years,” Ben said. “Nothing and no one will come between me and my son.”

ALLY WAS SUFFOCATING in the heat despite the floor and ceiling fans whirring away. She undid her top button, lifted her ponytail off the back of her neck and fanned herself with a brochure for Lavender Farm.

Outside, the sky was nearly black and the shop-fronts across the street glowed with a weird yellow light. Papers blew along the footpath ahead of a little whirlwind of dust that rose from the gutter. It was going to rain—

Oh, no, she’d left laundry on the line. Would George think to bring it in? She glanced at her watch and picked up the phone. Ten past five. He should be home.

No answer. He must have been delayed.

She dropped the receiver back in the cradle. The door opened and on a gust of warm wind, in walked Ben Gillard.

Ally sat up so fast her chair shot forward and her bare toes flattened against the marble floor. “Hi.”

“G’day.” His dark gold hair, tousled from the wind, was lighter at the spiky tips. He had deep-set green eyes under straight thick brows and a jutting jaw that might have looked aggressive if it weren’t for the smile on his face. He reached across her desk to shake her hand. “I’m Ben.”

“Ally.” Her eyes widened at the sight of his forearm scarred with knife cuts and burns. Then her hand was enveloped by a callused palm that sent a jolt of electricity up her arm, and it took all her professional training to stammer, “O-on behalf of Tipperary Springs merchants may I wish you every success on your opening.”

“Thanks.” His smile twitched at her little speech. Casually he picked up a brochure and started to thumb through it. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m renting the apartment above the restaurant but I need a better place to live.”

“As much as I’d like to assist,” she said primly, “the real estate agent across the road is the person you ought to speak to. We cater to the tourist industry.”

“I realize that but I’m talking short-term, until I buy a house,” Ben explained. “The real estate agents all want a minimum one-year lease.”

“I could make inquiries.” Ally pulled out a pad of paper, thinking one of the cottage owners might welcome a couple of months guaranteed income. “What are your requirements?”

“Two phone jacks,” Ben said. “According to my son life isn’t worth living if he can’t be on the Internet.”

“Two phone jacks,” Ally repeated, writing the words. “What else?”

Ben shrugged. “Just your basic house. Nothing fancy.”

“How many bedrooms?” Ally persisted. “Do you want built-in wardrobes? Gas or electrical kitchen? How big a yard? Do you need it fenced?”

“Hey!” he said. “I just want a roof over my head.”

“Perhaps your wife has some ideas?”

Ben threw her a swift glance. “My ex-wife has a great many ideas but she’s going off on her honeymoon. I’m the one paying the rent.”

“So it’s just for yourself and your son. Two bedrooms.” Ally made a note on her pad of paper. “You’d probably like to be in town so your restaurant is within walking distance for your son.”

“Good idea. I didn’t think of that.” Ignoring the visitor’s chair, Ben perched on the side of her desk and peered at her list.

“Perhaps a yard so he could play outside?” Ally suggested.

“Anything to get him away from the computer.”

Big yard, Ally wrote. “Do you cook at home?”

“Of course.”

“Then a decent kitchen with a gas stove.” She glanced up at him. “Electricity is so slow.”

“I agree.” Ben’s gaze drifted from her notepad to her chest. “Gas is hotter. Faster.”

Ally belatedly recalled her open blouse. With an effort, she resisted glancing down and drawing attention to herself. She was suddenly aware of his tanned arm with its smattering of golden hairs lying across his thigh. She could casually lean back, discreetly button up—

“Interesting brooch,” Ben commented.

“I beg your pardon?” She blinked up at him. He wasn’t looking at her breasts, after all.

“Your brooch. The little person with the pink hair sticking straight up.”

“Oh!” Heat flooded her cheeks as she stroked the long fringe of soft pink atop the silver and blue figure. “It’s called Bad Hair Day.”

“I bet you’ve never had a bad hair day in your life.”

Instinctively, Ally touched her long, smooth ponytail held in rigid obedience by a battery of ties and clips overlaid with hairspray to stop flyaway stragglers. She gave a nervous laugh. “I like to live vicariously.”

“I hope that doesn’t apply to your love life,” Ben said with a wink and a smile. He pushed himself off the desk. “I have to get back to the restaurant. Drop by later.”

Ally got up as he walked out and hurried to the window to watch him until he disappeared inside Mangos. I like to live vicariously. What on earth had possessed her to say that?

She went back to her desk and tried calling George again. Still no answer. Where was he? Ally paced the office, her gaze flicking constantly to the window and the coming storm. She could run home, take the laundry off the line and be back in less than twenty minutes. Plenty of time before the Americans arrived.

Thunder rolled across the leaden sky as she hurried along Main Street before coming to the side road that led up the hill. With her umbrella tucked under her arm she tugged her skirt down and leaned into the buffeting wind. Finally, she turned onto her street. Down the side of her house, between the fence covered in jasmine and the white weatherboards, she glimpsed the backyard and clothes flapping wildly on the line. She pushed through the iron gate and it was whipped out of her hand by the wind to clang shut behind her.

George’s Mercedes was in the driveway. So he was home. He must have just got there. She ran up the steps and across the veranda to turn the front door handle.

Locked. How strange. She and George never locked the door when they were at home during the day. She fumbled in her bag for her key chain and opened the door. The lounge room to her right was dark from the approaching storm but light spilled down the short hallway from the kitchen, along with the sound of voices.

George. And Kathy, his secretary.

Ally set her umbrella by the door and moved through the dim house, her footsteps drowned out by the wind keening through the trees and a branch banging against the corrugated tin roof. Overhead, a loud clap of thunder shook the heavens.

She stopped in the doorway. George and Kathy were seated at the breakfast table over cups of coffee in a scene that was oddly domestic. George looked uncharacteristically relaxed with his shirt untucked and his hair messed up. Kathy’s short brown curls were ruffled, her mascara smudged and her lipstick worn right off.